When I was a child I did not believe in bedtime monsters. I had no fear of the eyes in the closet or the claws under the bed. They were silly stories told to sillier children to shape their behavior. My feet would dangle from the edge, my head would go uncovered by blankets. I had no fear of things that did not exist.

I fear now.

I lie in my bed, my feet far from the ever-present darkness and head wrapped securely in a fabric shelter; the monster’s glowing eyes watch me from the closet, its claws inching outward from under the bed.

When this creature appeared, I cannot be certain. Not in my childhood, nor in my adolescence, but sometime later. Of that I’m sure.

It watches me. Not every night, no. But most. I am free two nights a week, maybe three or more on rare occasion. During bad times less, and during good times more. But the length of the hiatus does not matter, for it always returns, watching and waiting.

On those unfortunate nights, much like tonight, when I crawl into bed weary and wary, I see it stalking me, biding its time to grab me in my sleep. But I’ve learned to postpone the inevitable, to halt the undeniable. Light and noise keeps the monster away–at least for a time. So I turn on my television–it doesn’t matter to what–and beg my eyes to stay awake, to remain open a minute more. This may buy me a few hours of reprieve, but even so the monster edges ever closer, growing immune to my petty defenses as eyelids droop. Yet, I still have counters. Without warning I jump from my bed and turn on the lamp. The light fills the room, pushing the beast back to hiding. I do not make eye contact with it as I scurry to the bathroom, earning another precious moment of safety. But I can only hide there so long before my limbs grow heavy and my head dips to my chest.

Sleep is calling. The monster is beckoning.

With a desperate splash of water to the face, I give my mirrored reflection one last look as if the man looking back at me can offer assistance. We both know he holds no answer. He can only watch me vanish back into my room.

I sit on the bed and sigh. My head is swimming with fatigue. The end is near. I close my itching eyes, reach out a shaking hand, and turn off the protecting light. Darkness grabs hold and the monster crawls closer. Its damning steps are war drums in my ears. Yet my feet are still on the floor. It is a bold strategy, I know, but desperate times. Maybe, just maybe, if I do not let them touch my bed, I will confuse the creature, trick it into thinking I am not there.

It won’t work, it never does.

My shoulders stoop, and my muscles falter. The monster leaps. Its weight presses on my chest, its claws digging into my shoulders, pushing me downward. I am pinned, my feet dangling, my head uncovered, my mind fearful. This is it. I could struggle, I could fight. In the past I have, but now I have learned–there is no use in battling. The monster will win. It always does.

I look into its glowing eyes. No empathy, no remorse, no mercy. I do not whimper nor do I cry, even as my eyes close and the monster burrows inside of me.

Darkness takes hold.

My alarm screeches, and I wake. The monster is unseen, no longer lurking in my closet or hidden under my bed. No. It is inside of me–a burden I must endure on mornings such as these. My hands cover my face, and I could cry. But I don’t have time.

I must get to my stupid job.

Follow me on twitter @beginning_write for updates for new short stories such as this.

Additionally, if you love fantasy but are a bit annoyed by the tropes, stereotypes, and clichés, then take a break and read “The Horse’s Journey”. It is short story parody series that I have started to poke fun at all the wrongs found in standard fantasy novels. If you want to begin your journey alongside our heroic horse hero (alliteration!) click here.

Thank you for reading!

P.S. To any past/present/future employers, this is a total and complete work of fiction that in no way represents or symbolizes real life feelings of the author–well, maybe that ONE job, but not the others. . . okay maybe that LAST one, too, but definitely not the OTHER one. Maybe.

The man sat alone at the bar, staring down into an empty glass he did not remember ordering.

“I need your glass.”

The man jumped at the sound. He looked up to find a boy behind the counter, putting away a newly cleaned glass and exchanging a filthy rag for a fresh one.

The man shifted, bringing himself closer to his own glass. “I’m not done yet.”

The boy’s eyes did not leave the man’s face. “I need your glass.”

With a shaking hand, the man lifted his glass to his mouth, taking a deep swig of non-existing liquid. He stared at the child, daring him say something; the boy said nothing. A spark of heat awakened in the man’s stomach, and he eyed the child with disdain.

“What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this anyway?”

“I need your glass.”

The man slapped his hand against the counter. “I’m not ready to leave yet!”

“I need your glass.”

“If you want it, then have it!” The man grabbed his glass and reared his arm back. But he could not let go. He wanted to, he needed to, but he could not. The glass shook in his hands as he lowered it back to the counter.

“Give me another round,” he said, his heart racing.

“I need your glass.”

“Do you know who I am?” the man hollered, thrusting his trembling thumb into his chest. The boy did not so much as nod. The heat in the man roiled, ready to erupt. It would burn down the bar, the boy, and the glass, then they would know who he was!

But who was he?

The man inhaled sharply–he could not answer the question. There were flickers of bygone memories, but he could not form them into anything more.

“I need your glass,” the boy said, his face betraying no hint of care for the man’s realization.

“I’m not finished. Give me another moment to enjoy it.”

The boy did not react, and the man’s chest turned hollow. He felt nothing but the edge of an abyss. He needed another drink.

“A small refill is all I need, is all I ask.”

“I need your glass.” The boy held out a hand. In his other, the clean rag hung at the ready.

The man snarled and hissed, beating a hand against his head while the other clung to the dirty glass. “I’ll kill you if you don’t pour me something more!”

And he meant it. He would kill the boy for just one sip.

The boy’s face remained a blank mask. “I need your glass.”

The man leapt at the child. He would make the boy feel the hate coursing through his veins, the desperation filling his stomach, the fear in his every word. His hands missed the child but his arms did not. They wrapped around the boy and pressed tightly. But instead of harming the child, the man found himself clinging to him.

“Please, please, one more drink. If not a drink, one more sip from my glass. It isn’t empty, I promise it isn’t empty yet.” Tears poured down the man’s face and snot dribbled from his nose.

“I need your glass.”

The man removed himself from the child and looked down at his glass. This thing was important; no matter what he must never give it up.

But why?

He did not remember the contents of the glass, yet here he stood clutching it and begging to once again enjoy something he could not recall. What a silly thing to do. He took a deep breath, and in his veins he felt nothing and in his stomach sat nothing.

He wiped his face and held the glass out to the boy. “Take it.”

The child accepted it without gloat or derision, and the man turned and headed for the exit even as the boy ran the rag across the filth, leaving behind only a newly cleaned glass.

freedom is the duty to do what They want when They demand it. knowledge is the right They possess and only They can give. truth is the power They control and Others do not.

They set the rules, i follow them, They do not. that is life, not dystopia.

They proclaim Their public virtues, but practice Their private sins. They say this is not contradiction, so it is not. that is life, not dystopia.

They ask my opinion, rewarding my parroting, punishing–no, they correct, never punish–my divergence. this is right. They are right. i should repeat Their wisdom, earn Their approval never Their disapproval. that is life, not dystopia.

the world works because Them. the world burns because Others.

They educate me on lessons They do not follow. this makes sense, i must do the same. They question nothing but answer everything. this makes sense, i must do the same. They hate Others for being Them. this makes sense, i must do the same.

and when i have become They, They will tell you freedom, knowledge, and truth exists. They will tell you dystopia is a lie.

and you shall believe They.

that is life, not dystopia.

Follow me on twitter @beginning_write for updates for new short stories such as this.

Additionally, if you love fantasy but are a bit annoyed by the tropes, stereotypes, and clichés, then take a break and read “The Horse’s Journey”. It is short story parody series that I have started to poke fun at all the wrongs found in standard fantasy novels. If you want to begin your journey alongside our heroic horse hero (alliteration!) click here.

Chapter 2: (Yes, We Are Doing Chapters Now . . . And Also Considering Them Chapters!) Fadder, Vader, Father?

I stand over my farm boy, blocking him from the crazed hermit Old Man Fadder, who is staring at him. Alright creepy guy, you can leave now. Despite my clear body language, the old man comes over to the boy, ignoring me completely.

“Your time to fulfill the prophecy has arrived,” he whispers dramatically.

Prophecy? First, what the what? Second, who are you even talking to? There’s no one here but the unconscious boy and me. Last, and most importantly, what are you doing out here? Have you been stalking us from the trees again? Fifteen years of this crap, and no one but me seems to notice.

The man grabs the boy and starts to pick him up. I give him my best threatening neigh, but it must have come out as a needy whine because the old man nods solemnly and pats my nose. I’m going to have to work on my intimidating demeanor.

“No need to be afraid for him anymore. I am here to help.”

Not reassuring.

Old Man Fadder lays the boy on my back before grabbing my reins. Yeah, no, that’s fine, put the ticking time bomb on my back and force me to follow you. Great. Glad you showed up. Where were you hiding again?

We walk in uncomfortable silence through the devastated landscape before reaching the untouched trees, making our way toward the farm. During this little trip all I get to stare at is the swaying of an old man’s bland, boring backside. It’s basically like having the farm boy lead me. Now that I think of it, both look identical from this point of view–from any point of view, actually. Bland, boring, and lacking any personality. The only difference is that the old man has a few grey hairs and a perplexing well-kept beard for a hermit. To be honest, I think they could be related, like father-son related. But that couldn’t be right. I mean, why would a father abandon his son, let the child be left on a distant relative’s doorstep, watch (stalk) the boy grow up, find him passed out after absorbing a golden orb, whisper about it beginning and prophecies, and never say a word to anyone, ever? I mean that would be stupid. His name is Old Man Fadder, surely someone would have made the connection after all these years. They can’t be related.

Probably.

Maybe.

Eh.

Whatever it doesn’t matter to me. All I want to do is get to the barn, eat some hay, and forget the whole I-nearly-died-to-a-magic-orb-before-golden-eyes-healed-and-or-resurrected-me thing. Only a few more minutes and we will be back at the farm. In fact I can see it through the thinning trees. No need to stop.

Old Man stops us. Damn.

Grabbing the boy off my back, Old Man sets him down against a tree. The boy’s head lulls to the side, but mercifully he isn’t shouting. Then Old Man waves his hand in front of the boy and an amber symbol weakly sparkles on the back of his hand before an amber light shoots out of his palm and into the boy’s face.

The boy raises his brows uncomfortably and looks past the blabbering Old Man to me. His face splits into a smile, and I give him a happy neigh.

“I thought you died,” he says, trying to get up and get to me, but Old Man holds him down with a hand on the shoulder.

“A story before you worry. Insight is alright!”

I’m going to bite him.

I move in for the kill, but Old Man’s leg kicks out and deflects me despite his full attention being on the boy.

Well played.

I can only watch as the boy gives a reluctant half-smile while Old Man begins his tale. The man’s voice grows deep, all pretense of rhyming out the window. Blessed day!

“In The Long Forgotten Age–” Then who cares? “–The Orb of Power was formed. Prosperity filled the world and an ancient sect known as–”

I more or less tune out. But the bits I do catch are basically: some old organization–not that old, I mean they were around like sixteen years ago, I remember them . . . most everyone should . . . –called The Spherical Order–it was tacky back then, too–used the power of TOP (I’m not going to repeat the whole title all the time) to make the world a happy place–I do remember them being more cult-like and oppressive but it’s Old Man’s story so whatever–then one of their own, The Shatterer–I know, yikes–killed everyone and is now the Dark Lord of the Kingdom. Oh, also some prophecy about a Chosen One wielding the Core Orb to reunite all the Pieces of Seven, and rebalance the unbalance–wait, that can’t be right . . . no, yeah, that’s what he said–that The Breaking –seriously with the proper nouns– of TOP left behind in the world.

All of it nonsense.

Or a reiteration of basic history that any child in this world should know.

Or a poorly veiled attempt to explain the boy’s status of The Chosen One while also dishing out loads of unnecessary backstory that may or may not become vital in his journey of overthrowing The Dark Lord and reestablishing the culty/tyrannical TSO.

One of the three.

“The end, don’t bend!” The Old Man concludes, before letting go of the boy and literally skipping away into the trees–presumably to keep spying on the boy.

“Well, that was odd,” the boy says, getting up and brushing himself off.

I toss my head in agreement.

Thunder claps, and I flinch, fully expecting to be tossed through the air for the second time today. But no air sailing happens. I look upward to see the once cloudless sky now thick with dark, roiling storm clouds.

Hm.

“Storms coming up, Horsey. We better get home quick,” the boy says shamelessly, grabbing my reins and leading me to the farm. The resemblance between him and Old Man really is uncanny.

Also, yes, my name is Horsey. Horsey the horse.

Now bring your attention back to more cliffhangery matters–such as the impending storm. I’m sure that has nothing to do with Chosen Orb Boy here. Nope. It will no way impact my everyday life.

Not at all.

If you wish to follow this story, follow me on twitter @beginning_write for updates about future postings!

]]>http://beginningwrite.com/the-horses-journey-2/feed/0The Horse’s Journey #1http://beginningwrite.com/the-horses-journey-1/
http://beginningwrite.com/the-horses-journey-1/#respondSat, 26 May 2018 00:34:50 +0000http://beginningwrite.com/?p=40Here is the first entry into my weekly ongoing series The Horse’s Journey.

A parody of all things we love about Fantasy and the classic Hero’s Journey told through the eyes of the hero’s lovable but always underappreciated horse. Hope you enjoy!

“No! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOO! ”

I continue to chew the wild grass, trying my best to ignore the dreaming–and screaming–boy lying near me.

“Run, he’s coming for you! Maiden elf, run! Save yourself!”

This poorly scripted melodrama isn’t going to stop on its own, so I flick my tail in his face. He flinches and swipes blindly at it before returning to muttering sleep. Volume down. Excellent. I return happily to my grass.

“WHY ARE YOU CALLING MY NAME? WHO ARE YOU? I’M NOTHING BUT A SIMPLE FARM BOY, I’M NOT SPECIAL! WHAT IS THIS GOLDEN ORB?”

Seriously, the yelling. And what the hell did this kid eat before his nap?

I look around, making sure the coast is clear. No prying eyes. Good. I kick my leg out, and my hoof connects squarely with his ribs, sending him flying through the air and sprawling into the dirt face down. Crap! Too much! I gallop over to him. His shirt has rolled itself up into a bunch just below his chest, revealing the start of a dark bruise. But more disconcerting is the fact he isn’t moving. White frothy sweat forms along my back and neck. I didn’t mean to kill him! Sure leaving the bruise felt good, but killing him? Never!

I should leave, pretend I was never here and just return home. Yes, I can play dumb when his uncle and aunt ask about him.

Boy? What boy? I’ll say, prancing about innocently. You never had a boy living here.

No. Stupid.

What am I going to do? They are going to turn me into dried meat and fertilizer if they find out. I need to run. Yes, I will flee wherever my four hooves take me. Maybe become a rugged, hooves-for-hire warhorse. I would look good in shining armor. It’s my only rational option–the life of a lone warrior!

My destiny has been set.

“I’M NOT READY FOR THIS DESTINY!” The boy screams through the dirt. I rear up, surprised at the very alive child now thrashing about and still spouting off nonsense.

My sense of guilt is washed away by newfound annoyance. This screaming really needs to stop. One of his hands grabs a tuft of grass inches from my hoof. The kick to the ribs didn’t wake him, but a broken finger might. Turning my head skyward as if I’m fascinated by the leaves and sunshine, I stomp down directly onto his fingers.

Thunder claps in the cloudless sky, and golden light erupts from directly above, slamming into me. Something akin to electricity pulsates through my every nerve, forcing my back legs to kick outward and my front legs to curl inward. My neck twists without reason. I am catapulted through the air by a force that mows down the nearby trees, sending shards of wood into my skin. I can only close my eyes helplessly. This is the end.

Blinded I don’t see the ground coming up to meet me. But my body feels the full brunt of the welcoming. Skin shreds. Muscles tear. Bones splinter. I can’t see, or hear, or taste. All I can do is feel my body break.

I skid across the ground, leaving a trail of hair and blood behind. By nothing more than luck and happenstance I am alive, even as I careen to a halt dozens of feet away, barely missing uprooted trees. A squeak of a noise escapes my lungs as I barely raise my head off the dirt in an attempt to understand what just occurred. The world is bright lights and vague noises. Wetness coats me. More likely than not my own blood, but nothing I can do about that now. The patch of woods I had been standing in is now gone. Only a perfect circle of treeless, overturned dirt remains. I have no idea what caused this, but I do recognize the still form laying in the center of the clearing. Dread sinks into my stomach. It’s the boy. He’s dead.

I drop my head and don’t fight the tears. The boy was boring and lacked any real personality, but he was my boring, personality-lacking boy. I never appreciated him. Never loved him for what he was. I mocked and belittled him, but he deserved better. He was my friend. My family.

The form shifts. A groan escapes it. It’s the boy. He’s alive!

Spasms and convulsions rake my body, but I drag myself to my feet. Each hoof split. Most of my back flayed open. Blood running from my nostrils. None of it matters. If I can somehow save him, I will die happy.

The boy groans again, shifting slightly.

I urge myself to go faster. My back legs drag behind barely able to uphold the weight, but my front hooves dig into the soil, pulling me forward. The splits screech and bellow in protest, and my back cramps, sending shockwaves of pain through my body. I bully forward. The exertion will kill me–there is no use denying it. But regardless, I am dead anyways. At least this way I can do what I can for my human brother before my end comes.

I reach the boy. He is hardly moving, but he’s at least alive. He’s face down in the dirt, but by a miracle his back and legs are unharmed. I have little hope the same can be said for his front–not by the way he is groaning. He is at death’s door. I am too late.

Calling upon every bit of reserved strength I possess, I dig my nose under him to flip him over and assess the damage. My knees buckle. Blood spurts from my back. Air no longer reaches my lungs. But with one last heave I manage to turn him face up before collapsing at his side, so our faces nearly touch. My heart skips, and despair takes over. The boy’s face is contorted into a mask of pain and fear, his eyes are scrunched shut and his mouth is wide open, a ghostly exhale of air escapes his body for the final time. I failed him.

“Ahhhhhhh!” The boy finishes his yawn and opens his eyes. “Sorry for dozing off. How long was I asleep?”

Offspring of an ovulating hounddog! There’s not one cut, bruise, or red mark on his stupid bland face! How? What? Why?

Then I see the golden orb pulsating in his hand. Soft gold light emits from its core, particles of unknown matter fill the air around it. That can’t be good.

“What’s this?” he asks, bringing the unknown object to his face. Yeah, I wouldn’t do that. Whatever it is, it obviously caused the mass destruction and my impending death. He should drop it, like right now. I try neighing to warn him it’s dangerous, but the only thing that escapes me is a choked gasp and a stream of bloody saliva, which pools around me.

The boy’s head snaps to me. His eyes go wide in fear, realizing for the first time the situation I’m in. He shoots a look around at the surroundings before returning his attention to me. He grows pale.

“What happened?” he asks.

Seriously? How are you not figuring this out? But I don’t have the strength to even give an annoyed whine. My face sinks deeper into the lake of muddy blood under me.

“We need to get you home. Uncle will know what to do.” The boy’s voice comes out thick. Even he knows this is a lost cause. Nothing short of an outrageous, stupid miracle could put me back together. One final tremor shakes my body and I neigh for the last time. As darkness takes me, I hear the boy scream as if in a tunnel.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

The child sure likes his excessive yelling.

Suddenly and with no warning, hint, or foreshadow, a golden light forces my eyes open, and I see the golden orb sink into the boy’s hand. Yes, sinking. Like a lead weight through water. An explosion of light and a strange gold symbol appears on the back of his hand. I knew he should of dropped the stupid thing.

The orb melts into him, leaving the his hand aflame in a golden aura. Before either of us can register what just happened, a streak of light shoots out of his hand and hits my face. I begin to float off the ground. Memories of being flung through the air fill my brain, and panic claws at my heart. I look to the boy in desperation, hoping beyond hope he can stop whatever is happening. My mouth opens stupidly as I see his eyes have transformed into orbs of gold. What the hell? That’s horrifying!

“Yjod od dyiqof!” He says in a booming voice.

He’s possessed and speaking absolute nonsense, I need to get out of here! I try to kick free of the light and this demon child, but my legs are useless. Not good. A feeling of needles puncturing my body freezes me in place. Can this day get any worse?

Then a warmth washes over me. My shredded skin stitches back together. Torn muscles reattach. Splintered bones mend. Four small clicks sound from the bottom of my legs, and I look down to find my hooves are no longer split. Bloods stops pouring out of my nose. And clarity returns to my vision and hearing. I’m fully healed. No sign of any lasting wound, injury, or scar. It’s as if everything horrifying and life-altering I experienced in the last five minutes has been completely nullified and wiped of any insignificance by a vague and confusing magical power.

I’ll take it!

The golden light sucks back into the boy’s hand, making his eyes return to normal. No longer held up by the light, I crumple to the floor. Sure save my life then throw me back to earth. Thanks, orb. I push myself up on legs that now work and see the boy’s eyes flutter before he collapses, unconscious.

Not a great time to pass out, kid.

I don’t want to touch him. The orb is now burrowed in his body, and it’s more than capable of blowing up again. But I can’t just leave him here. He did save my life. Damn life debts!

Hesitantly I tip-toe–not an easy thing to do as a horse–over to him and nudge him with a hoof before skittering away to a safe distance. I stare at him, ready for gold light and pain to fill my world. Nothing.

I once again move forward and again nudge him. I don’t run but I do turn my head expecting the worst. Nothing.

My muscles relax and I flick my tail in relief. It seems safe. For now. Okay, I just need to gently and quickly get him on my back and carry him home. But how? He’s completely flat on the ground. I lay down beside him before trying to worm my way under his body and slide him onto my back. I only manage to push him away and get both he and I dirty. Great.

Alright next option. I could drag him with my teeth. I stand up and bite into the back of his shirt. Dirt, grass, and sweat assault my tongue, but I ignore it and begin moving home. Oh by the Great Horse Lord, this child is heavier than he appears. But it’s only a few miles of rough, uneven terrain, surely I can do it with time, patience, and determination.

I get ten feet.

On to the next plan.

I look about unsure of what to do. I am alone, I am a horse, and I am handless. The now large and shining bruise on the boy’s exposed side catches my eye. Interesting. If he didn’t die from the first kick, surely he will survive a few dozen–or hundred–more. He may wake up sore, but he has the orb of healing. Best option available. Turning around so my haunches are facing him, I ready a kick. One. Two. Three. Go–

“So, it has begun.”

I hurl myself into the air at the voice with impeccable dramatic timing speaks out from behind me. Spinning mid-air, I land and find myself face-to-face with the town’s creepiest hermit and potential stalker of my farm boy, Old Man Fadder.

This day just got worse.

If you wish to follow this story, follow me on twitter @beginning_write for updates about future postings!

]]>http://beginningwrite.com/the-horses-journey-1/feed/0Writing Consistently is the Right Way to Write!http://beginningwrite.com/writing-consistently-is-the-right-way-to-write/
http://beginningwrite.com/writing-consistently-is-the-right-way-to-write/#respondWed, 23 May 2018 15:00:12 +0000http://beginningwrite.com/?p=19You awaken from a dream where your next masterpiece has revealed itself on a ray of golden light. You instantly note it in your smartphone (or, if you still possess a flip phone like me, your notebook) and fall asleep. In the morning you will begin to write—you vow it upon the life of your unwritten but already beloved protagonist. When your alarm rings the next morning, you eagerly jump out of bed and run to your desk, ready to write. But before you do, your stomach grumbles. Probably should get something to eat, then you will start! You finish your avocado toast (we all love it, let’s not deny the truth!), and eagerly run back to your desk. The writing can commence. But dang, that bit of toast is stuck in your teeth, probably should clean them. You get up, and begin to floss, brush, and rinse. Done. Now time for more writing! Then you see yourself in the mirror. Ooph, not pretty. A quick shower, then write. All cleaned up, time to type out some prose. Crud, it’s already time for work? Fine, when you get home, the writing will be had. *eight to nine hours of work/fun, and at least an hour of traffic, later*. Back home. But first, dinner. Whoops, need to get that ingredient you forgot. A sprint to the store, back home, and meal served up. You can write. Darn, dishes first. Okay, let’s do this. But man you are tired, maybe a half hour in front of Netflix. That’s all. Wow, how did that turn to two hours. No biggie, you’ll just jot down some notes and really get started tomorrow. Wait, got to do that night routine. Floss, brush, rinse. Okay, time to do this, for reals. *Wake up in the morning*. Oops. Well, hope your protagonist really wasn’t depending on that vow, because things wouldn’t be looking food for him.

The above scenario happens to all writers every day. In fact, that scene doesn’t even include children and spouse obligations, emergencies, plans written down but forgotten about until the day of, flat tires, cold and flu season, and so on and on and on. But here’s the thing: writing doesn’t care.

Writing doesn’t care you had to stay up all night and tend to a sick child. Writing doesn’t care you have to commute two hours both ways to a job you hate. Writing doesn’t care you just want to turn your brain off. Writing doesn’t care about that emergency. Writing doesn’t care what you wanted to do but simply didn’t have time to do. Writing doesn’t care you are looking for inspiration. Writing doesn’t care that you don’t like to be tied down by a writing schedule. Writing doesn’t care you will totally write tomorrow.

Writing doesn’t care.

With that reality, there is only one thing us writers can do. Make ourselves write. It doesn’t matter if it is eight hours a day, one hour every other day, or even a fifteen-minute session once a week, we need to create consistency. Because once we create consistency it will become habit, and habit transforms into routine. And once you have a routine, you can feel and see real progress in your writing as inspired dreams become a cringe worthy first draft, and that draft transforms into a polished work. But none of that can happen if we don’t write.

My own life is filled with a full-time job, a two-plus hour commute, a pending wedding, and a social life among other things, but I have decided that despite it all writing is a must. So, I created a schedule to follow. Below is the basic timeframe I have made a routine:

Monday:

Novel writing: 5:15am – 6:30am

Blog Writing: 9:30pm – 10:00pm

Tuesday:

No writing scheduled

Wednesday:

Novel writing: 5:15am – 6:30am, 9pm to 10pm

Blog writing: 9:30pm – 10:00pm

Thursday:

Blog writing: 9:30pm – 10:00pm

Friday:

Novel writing: 5:15am – 6:30am, 8pm to 9pm

Blog writing: 9:30pm – 10:00pm

Saturday:

Novel Writing: 7:30am – 9:00am

Sunday:

Novel Writing: 7:30am – 9:00am

Blog Writing: 9:30pm-10:00pm

Total hours per week: 12.25 (8.75 novel, 3.5 blog)

In total, I write less than what most part-time jobs requires. That’s fine. The point is not to be able to brag about “having all our free time be taken over by writing” or “finishing that novel in a month”. The point is to follow a schedule that allows us to consistently write week in and out.

So, if you are having difficulty finding time to write, getting motivated, or some other reason, I want you to follow this simple schedule:

Monday:

Write: 6:00am – 6:20am

Wednesday:

Write: 6:00am – 6:20am

Friday:

Write: 6:00am – 6:20am

Saturday OR Sunday:

Write: 8:00am – 8:30am

There is nothing I can do to ensure you follow the above schedule or motivate you to write, but what I can promise is that if you do begin a consistent writing schedule you will make progress. It may be slow, it may take years, but if you dedicate yourself to the hour and a half schedule above I guarantee you will see progress in the form of real words written down on real (or digital) paper.

In the comments below, let me know if you will start to follow the prescribed schedule or if you have your own that has worked for you. Better yet, share some motivational words and encouragements that can inspire us all to be better writers.

]]>http://beginningwrite.com/writing-consistently-is-the-right-way-to-write/feed/0Let me introduce myself (The Legend on the Mountain)http://beginningwrite.com/let-me-introduce-myself/
http://beginningwrite.com/let-me-introduce-myself/#respondTue, 22 May 2018 03:02:38 +0000http://beginningwrite.com/?p=30All you need to know about a writer is in their written word; below is my introduction. Post your own writing in the comments if you wish to introduce yourself.

Thank you.

The Legend on the Mountain

by Austin Phillips

The Young Man scaled the mountain certain of what he would find upon the summit—The Legend on the Mountain. The Warrior, The Assassin, and The King had all journeyed this path to reach The Legend, and when they returned, each told of an individual so enlightened that every word he spoke was prophetic. He foresaw their greatness and blessed them to follow their destinies. It was now The Young Man’s turn to be guided.

However, the path was not easy.

Razor-edged stones sliced his feet, but he thought of The Legend vanquishing the invading tribes of the Great Beyond; he too wished to find glory on the battlefield, so he pressed on.

The wind and frost bit into his flesh, but he thought of The Legend slaying The Dark Tyrant and putting an end to his terrible reign; he too dreamed of defeating such a foe, so he pressed on.

His eyes glazed and his breath weakened from climbing the ever-steepening cliffs, but he thought of The Legend bringing a generation of peace and stability to the kingdom; he too yearned to rule so valiantly, so he pressed on.

The Young Man pressed on and on until there was nothing more to press against. He had reached his journey’s end. In front of him was the man he so desperately sought—The Legend on the Mountain. The boy saw a noble figure draped proudly in armor so bright it blinded, a cloak so regal it awed, and an aura so magnificent it demanded a bent knee. The Legend turned and looked at the newcomer.

“Another?” The Legend’s voice was a wail of fury and anguish.

The Young Man froze. This was not the welcome he dreamed of.

“Be gone, be gone from this wretched place!” The Legend cried.

The Young Man could not draw a breath. This was not how it was supposed to be.

“I have nothing more to give!” The Legend bellowed.

The Young Man’s eyes refocused on the decrepit man in rusted armor, a soiled cloak, and an air of madness that forced attention to go anywhere but to it. Whoever this creature was, it was not the hero The Young Man sought.

“I am here to see The Legend on the Mountain. What have you done with him?”

The Old Man stumbled forward and grabbed The Young Man with frail hands. The elder’s breath coated the youth’s skin like oil. “Flee!”

The Young Man pushed the crazed figure away. “Where is the Legend on the Mountain?”

“There has never been a legend here.”

The Young Man struck out with a fist, sending The Old Man sprawling into the snow.

“Where is he?” The Young Man screamed.

Propping himself up on elbows long ago cemented to stiffness, The Old Man looked out through matted hair. “He is I, and I am he.”

No! The Young Man’s knees hit the snow and his hands covered his face. Impossible. This thing could not be The Legend. It was a sick lie. A joke at its cruelest. The Young Man pushed himself upward with joints that could still handle such strain and shook his head.

“May a curse be placed upon you for whatever heinous deeds you have done to The Legend on the Mountain.” He turned to leave, determined to forge his own path in the wake that The Warrior, The Assassin, and The King had left behind. He would become legendary with or without the wisdom they had received upon this mountain.

Barely a step he took before he was spun around by The Old Man’s suddenly ferocious grip. Cruel words leapt to The Young Man’s mind but curdled on his tongue. Although the man’s breath still stank and his hair remained neglected, there was unquestionable sanity in his eyes.

“You think your curse is worthy of being added to the pile upon my back?” The man’s voice was heavy with pain The Young Man could not comprehend. “Forget your folly of becoming like The Warrior, The Assassin, and The King. They are broken creatures. They are shattered dreams. They are fallen men.”

The Warrior, The Assassin, and The King were everything a boy could aspire to be. The Young Man could not let these lies stand. He tried to shake his head, tried to refuse the words, but The Old Man’s grip did not break. Unable to escape, The Young Man lashed out with words of his own.

“The Warrior is a man of pride, when he walks the streets he holds his head high for all to see.”

“But when he is alone he hangs his head low, for the weight of his horrid past is too great a burden to bear,” The Old Man countered.

The Young Man’s heart quickened, uncertainty setting in. “The Assassin is without fear. He alone has mastered death and can wield it however he wills.”

“Death is not a weapon only one may brandish, it’s a disease that any can inflict. That man feigns fearlessness to cover the pain of his own cowardly deeds.”

The Young Man tried to stay strong. “The King is loved by all. No matter where he steps he is followed by a crowd of endless love and respect.”

“He is a ravaged island weathering the unrelenting storm that is the demands of his ungrateful people.”

“It is not true!” The Young Man said like a mourner over the body of a beloved. “Why claim you know these things? You are only a madman forever alone upon a mountaintop.”

“I know because I am the three you seek to be, and they are me. Not by blood or flesh, but by experience and folly. Your heroes have been destroyed by their blind desires just as I was destroyed by my own.”

The Young Man had no reply. His throat tightened; his tongue tied. If this man truly was The Legend on the Mountain, then his words were true. But if his words were true, then The Young Man’s dreams were poison. That meant this man could not be what he claimed he was. His words were the poison—a poison The Young Man would not swallow. He gripped the lunatic’s wrists and tried to get free, but the wrinkled fingers tightened, digging deeper.

“You deny what I say because of the glory you crave, but that glory requires a price none should be willing to pay.” The Old Man’s voice rose to a shrill panic. “If the truth from my words will not convince you, then the truth of my past shall.” The Old Man brought the youth close, and like windows into the past his eyes allowed The Young Man to see into an age fondly remembered but long forgotten.

The boy found himself upon a battlefield where war had raged not long ago but now lulled into terrible stillness. This was not the glorious battlefield painted from the tongues of bards. This was carnage at its worst. At his feet, and spreading out like fire from its source, dead bodies lay twisted and mutilated. Dirt, ash, and blood could not hide the grotesque masks of pain and horror that were once faces of living men. He looked away, but The Old Man shook him until his eyes opened again. And with open eyes he saw a man sitting among the dead. But sitting was not the right word. The man was on all fours like a wounded animal blindly searching for sanctuary that did not exist. Dirt, ash, and blood covered The Crawling Man like the dead around him. But even through the layer of death distorting the human beneath, The Young Man recognized the eyes of The Old Man on The Crawling Man’s face.

“This was but one nameless battle fought between the kingdom and the tribes from the Great Beyond.” The Old Man’s voice cracked and threatened to break. “The stories won’t tell you that these so-called invaders were not the conquering savages. They were the noble defenders of their homeland. Nor will the stories tell you how I survived through sheer luck and happenstance that left me more lifeless than the dead at my feet. All they will say is that I, The Legend on the Mountain, stood alone against the ravaging hordes of the invading tribes and beat them back with not a single injury or pain.”

“This can’t be,” The Young Man muttered. In his infancy, he knew the tales to ring true. In his adolescence, he knew them to be fact. In his present, he began to doubt. But it was not yet strong enough to break his old beliefs. “Do not deceive me. The bards may embellish, but The Warrior himself speaks fondly of the righteousness found in battle, and it is nothing like the blasphemy before me.”

A harsh bark of a laugh escaped The Old Man’s throat. “He must deceive himself as much as he deceives others. The reality is too much for any man to overcome.”

The Young Man opened his mouth to refuse. But before he could, the battlefield was gone and he found himself in a room dimly lit by candlelight. On the floor was a pool of blood, and in the blood were two men—one dead and the other weeping. On the dead man’s face sat only confusion and fear; on his throat a fatal slash. The Weeping Man’s face was obscured as he cradled the body and buried his head into its chest. Next to him a bloody dagger and crown lay forgotten.

“The Assassination of The Dark Tyrant.” The Old Man’s voice was strained as if dragging the words out with an otherworldly effort. “The art of the assassin is romanticized into an act of bravery and strength, but it is the most cowardice and deforming act of them all.” The Old Man paused a long moment, forcing The Young Man’s doubt to grow. “The tales of my exaggerated victories against the invading tribes had earned me such renown that when the people had decided The Dark Tyrant’s fate, I was chosen to seal it. For three years I infiltrated, gaining his trust and love. I became his protector, then his confidant, and finally his friend. I came to understand he was no tyrant; he was a strong man who did not bend to the rash impulses of others. I tried to tell the people this, but they threatened and cursed me, demanding I take his life. Unlike my friend, I feared them and cowed. And when my knife slit his life from flesh, he did not believe the deceit even as he choked on his own blood.”

The Old Man collapsed to his knees, bringing The Young Man with him.

“The Assassin claims his targets are deserving of his blade and that he is doing the good that must be done,” the boy offered meekly, clinging to the denial as a child would to his mother’s leg.

The Old Man said nothing. Instead the vision changed, and a bewildered man stood in front of them with the now bloodless crown upon his head. Surrounding him, in the very room where The Dark Tyrant was slain, swarmed an angry sea of faces. They screamed at him for their petty problems. Their neighbors did not share their beliefs, their children did not behave, their lives were not what they hoped. They had food but not the type their tongues desired. They had safety but feared the unknown. They had freedom but did not want the burden of choice.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years, and years to misery. Again and again and again the whining crowds demanded justice for their own decisions, blood for their own mistakes, death for their own rage. They wanted what others had. They wanted what was not theirs. They wanted more. The Bewildered Man tried to show them they had lives of plenty, but his words fell on closed ears. More, they cried, More! More! More! The Bewildered Man could not give them more, and so the people concluded he was not worthy. They labeled him tyrant. And like the tyrant before him, he deserved the same fate.

Knowing what awaited him if he stayed, The Bewildered Man ran, throwing away the crown from his head. The people gave chase, crushing the feeble headpiece under their charging feet. The Bewildered Man ran down the halls. They chased. He ran into the streets. They chased. He ran into the forest. They chased. He ran and ran, and they chased and chased. Then the man found himself upon the harsh mountain, his armor and cloak battered and torn, his limbs fatigued and feeble, his hair wild and unkempt. But no longer did he have to run, for they no longer chased. At last he had found the peace he so craved. Here he could find solace in his solitude.

On the mountain The Bewildered Man could not differentiate one day from the next, and soon he lost himself in his happy loneliness. But then arrived The Warrior, speaking of The Bewildered Man’s past but omitting the harsh realities and inserting fanciful lies. No, The Bewildered Man screamed, that is not my story! The Warrior ignored his words and left to achieve his self-created fantasy.

Next The Assassin came. He too heard the warnings but transformed them into something they were not. He left to become what he always dreamt himself to be.

Last was The King, and The Bewildered Man could hardly speak his truths before the man left with ideas of grandeur fully blossomed.

The vision faded, and The Young Man’s eyes refocused on The Old Man’s tear-streaked face. This was not what The Young Man wanted to become. If his dreams led only to this, then they were nightmares. And if they were nightmares, then this mountain was something far worse. Scrambling to protesting feet, the boy could no longer deny the old man’s wisdom. So he fled.

The Young Man replied by running faster. He ran and ran until his breath became jagged and his vision blurred. Memories of the crowd’s vicious faces and cruel words chased after him. How could they be so blind to what The Bewildered Man had tried to tell them? No dream of ruling a kingdom was worth such ignorant malice.

He scrambled down the steep cliffs and tried to keep running but stumbled. As he did, the crowd’s faces returned to his mind, but this time he became uncertain of their cruelty. Weren’t opposing voices to be expected no matter how great the ruler? Maybe The Old Man simply wasn’t worthy to lord over the land. The Young Man’s rule would be different, his would be worthy.

A gust of wind heavy with ice whipped against him, pushing out the dreams of rule and replacing them with memories of The Weeping Man clutching his friend’s corpse. The Young Man regained his footing and hurried forward. Even if he would be a glorious king, the price to obtain it was not worth the sacrifice. He would never kill another simply to appease the wants of others.

His foot collided with a rock hidden by the snow, and he crashed to the ground. He did not rise. Instead he pondered about the honor in assassination. If an individual deserved death, wasn’t the one to deliver it a man of honor? And if so many people claimed The Dark Tyrant was in fact a tyrant, why should The Old Man’s words be believed over theirs?

The answer was clear: his shouldn’t.

Obviously, The Old Man had appeared as a lunatic spouting lies to test The Young Man’s resolve. The Legend was judging whether his successor was worthy of his destiny; he was verifying that The Young Man had the strength of character to follow through with the epitome of all heroic deeds—an assassination.

The Young Man got up and walked onward, picking his way carelessly through the sharp stones. They cut into his feet deeper than before, yet he cared not, for he was too occupied with memories of The Legend proudly standing atop the corpses of the savage invaders of the Great Beyond. Through skill and ability, he had survived those battles unscathed and unmarred. The Young Man vowed he would do the same.

He strolled down the remainder of the mountain, trailing bloody footprints with each step; he paid them no attention. Like The Warrior, The Assassin, and The King, The Young Man would become a legend. That was his destiny. That was his right. That was what The Legend on the Mountain had prophesied.

Upon the mountain, The Old Man wiped his tears and smiled. Unlike the three before him, The Young Man had not twisted the words, warnings, or truths. The others had failed, but The Young Man would not repeat The Old Man’s mistakes. Of that The Legend on the Mountain was certain.

]]>http://beginningwrite.com/let-me-introduce-myself/feed/0The Beginninghttp://beginningwrite.com/the-beginning/
http://beginningwrite.com/the-beginning/#respondSun, 20 May 2018 03:33:58 +0000http://beginningwrite.com/?p=9My goal here is simple: to improve our writing. And the only way to achieve that is, you guessed it, actually writing. Gulp! I know. Writing is tedious and freeing. It is daunting and exhilarating. It is lonely and welcoming. It is unpleasant and magnificent. Of all professions, writing has been found to be the single most harrowing, rewarding, heart-wrenching, and life-affirming craft ever recorded* (*supporting statistics pending).

But despite the contradictory nature of this art, there is one universal truth at its core: writing improves writing. Through this blog, I will take you along on my own writing journey, and together—yes, I am depending on you to help me help you—we will fail, learn, and grow. And with enough hard work, stubborn persistence, and a lot of writing, we will earn the experience, skill, and confidence necessary to do justice to those stories begging to be put to paper.

To show you how serious I am about this, let me do something insane—let me show you my opening paragraphs from the first draft of my (in progress) novel Deti:

Lane refused to acknowledge the fresh welts on her arms begging her to surrender. She would not let mere physical pain dissuade her from finally defeating her mother, Lydia. It was true that her mother had already countered everything Lane had thrown at her, the results being the numerous welts decorating her arms and legs. However, Lane still had one trick left—her deti strength. The tactic had yet to succeed in any of their previous fights. But this time, if she bullied Lydia with an unrelenting frontal assault, she had no doubt that she would overcome her mother’s defenses.

Lane curled her fingers around the hilt of her wooden sword, and Lydia shifted her feet into a more defensive stance. Summoning her entire strength, Lane slashed at her mother’s head. Lydia dodged but gave no hint that she was going to counter. Yet Lane yelped in pain as her mother’s sword unexpectedly lashed out and bit into her forearm. Lane dropped her blade onto the wood floor and fell to her knees, clutching her arm. Lydia’s sword made contact three more times, none of them gentle.

From that excerpt, it is clear why I decided to put the novel aside and focus on getting my writing where my story demanded it to be. I pored over books with a critical eye, wrote short story after short story, and always pushed myself to learn. A year later I came back to Deti and have restarted from page one. This is what I have thus far:

Twisting rivers, digging valleys, and shaping mountains were simple things for Vular. Its ambros was a thousand years old and the most powerful of all deti, allowing complete mastery over the world. All Vular had to do was breathe, focus, and allow its ambros to take over. Simple. Easy. But since the attack—since becoming Lane Green—her ambros had gone dormant, unusable. Yet every day she tried to awaken it. Today was no exception. All she had to do was breathe, focus, and let her ambros interact naturally with her environment.

Nothing.

Her jaw tightened involuntarily. She shook her head. Patience. It had been less than two decades since her ambros turned quiet. After what she went through, it likely wouldn’t return to strength for a hundred years. She simply had to practice inhaling, concentrating, and altering her surroundings as she pleased.

Nothing.

She clenched her teeth. A hundred years. There was no guarantee of that. After a forced regeneration there was a real possibility her ambros would never return; sixteen years of beating her head against a never progressing wall proved that assessment. Her nostrils flared as she sucked in air and thrust her will upon the world, demanding it to change.

Nothing.

Her hands slapped the ground in frustration as her eyes opened. The damp soil, chin-high grass, and towering trees all appeared as they had before today’s practice begun. Another failure. Another day as Lane Green.

So, how about it? Let’s finish this novel. Let’s improve our writing. Let’s do this together.